I have
never seen the Agora so lit by vibrant colours. Silvered olive leaves shimmer
in the winter rains. Orange trees sag under their burdens of heavy fruit, low
hanging and ripe with the promise of juicy sweetness. All of this is made more
vibrant against the slate of the sky, low, cloaking the shoulders of the
surrounding hills. The rain is not falling hard, but it is impossible to stay
dry in this Athenian winter.
This is
our second day in this place, following a red eye that brought us winging in
from Toronto, via Charles de Gaulle in Paris. Day one was a reunion of sorts, a
family come together after my father’s six week hiatus to the depths of Kenya.
The muted celebration on our rooftop patio at Adam’s Hotel had a great deal of
laughter, wine, olives, and cheer. From our seats we stared up at the looming
plateau of the Acropolis, the strata of history lit by fluorescent bulbs in the
darkness, as bright as E.U. funds can manage
Night
was full, the wet marble streets of the Plaka reflecting the glow of the street
lamps. We are tired after our nights of long travel. Bellies are full, and the
wine takes its effect. My parents, and my brother’s girlfriend all settle down
for the night. But Jeremy and I, so often together it seems, decide that we
need to stretch our legs. Our feet steer us unerringly towards the Acropolis,
and its rumours of an older, far different world.
We
speak as we wander, of many things. My arrest, and his divorce, of the
bleakness that hounded us both in the aftermath of our private downfalls. I
mention to him that I miss the person I used to be, the person that walked
these very same steps when we were last at large in the Plaka; wandering that
warren of streets in a warm fog of cheap wine. I am better than I have been,
cautiously happy even, but careworn, suspicion and jaded cynicism replacing a
laughing, open demeanour.
Our
talk turns, as we pass the Sanctuary of Dionysus, to the Student Traveller
Hotel and its snug, vine shrouded patio; a place where we whiled away hours
with strangers who had become our friends of that hour, in that place. The
hotel is still there of course, a block from our current rooms. Adam’s Hotel is
lovely. Clean, spacious, with a terrace that commands an unparalleled view of
the Acropolis and this ancient corner of the modern sprawl that is Athens. But
it is not a budget hostel. We will meet no other backpackers, nor adventure
seekers; we will not while away pleasant hours with new friends who are
strangers, swapping stories, and buying rounds. It is this one aspect that
makes this trip so vastly different from any other sojourn I have taken. I feel
I am a tourist, not a traveller, insular and not sharing the road with those
met on the way. It is not the most pleasant thought I have had of that evening.
I am aware that I cannot step twice into the same river, which is simultaneously
a boon and a curse.
We pass
the southern slope of the Acropolis. Amphitheatres and roadside shrines made
this the province of Dionysus, god of wine and male virility. Our current level
of intoxication would no doubt have pleased the jovial bearded deity. Jeremy
peers through the rod iron gates of the Odeon, and stares at the refurbished
marble seats. To think that in these very places, the world was given the best
Sophocles and Euripides had to offer, gifting us with laughter and tears.
We climbed
on, slipping at times as we mount the rain sodden, age worn marble steps. The
security gates are closed for the night, but the Gate and the Temple of Athena
Nike are well lit above the grove of olive trees. We stop and admire the view,
minds far away. We re-enter the Plaka, descending the northern slope with care.
I fell hard, landing hard on my back, pride bruised. When we finally return to
the hotel, we are wet, but invigorated. Again we sit on the terrace, brothers
alone in the rain, and have a last Grecian beer.
Dawn
finds all of our small group refreshed. We retrace the steps Jeremy and I took
the night before, different now by daylight. Gates that sat sealed are swung
wide, making our exploration more in depth. We pass through the towering columns.
There are many others of course, a mixed bag of humanity. Shrouded women from
the Middle East, and poncho wearing Norsemen. Flashes from a thousand cameras
pepper the summit, but the crowd cannot dim my enjoyment of this place. The
Acropolis has the power to awe, those manner layers of history making me quiet
and reflective.
After a
brief renewal of my love-hate relationship with Grecian toilets, we leave the
summit, and meander through the Ancient Agora. Less intact, it is equally rich
in history. Here Socrates posed questions to the crowds. Here where democratic
notions were first enacted, imperfect though they were. We walk the Panathenaic
Way, in the footsteps of those who lived on in athletic glory.
The
steady tempo of the rain has increased. My mother is footsore, her suede shoes
proving inadequate to the weather. The white concrete jungle of modern Athens
is lost to view as we pass the Agora gates. The Library of Hadrian and the
Roman Agora are seen in a hurried blur, more lonely columns, strewn marble
plinths and fallen capitals, cast about like disregarded toys by a child in
temper. The Tower of the Winds receives a cursory viewing and no more as we
hasten back through the warren, to a lunch date at Byzantino. My mother’s
spirits rally even as her feet remain soaked and prune like. Complimentary wine
flows, and food disappears as quickly as it arrives to the table.
Athens,
my dear old lady, I have missed you.
